


Addicted to Pain

by FieryHorizon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, previous character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryHorizon/pseuds/FieryHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weeks passed since Dean's last prayer, and Castiel was starting to doubt his silence and absence from the man's life. It's probably what he wanted anyway, right? For the angel to disappear? When he finally decided to check on Dean (invisible of course, he still couldn't settle the pit in his stomach enough to truly face the man) he realized how wrong he was to stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addicted to Pain

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfiction in a really long time. I'm still working through a few kinks, but let me know what you think of it so far. Writing it will take a while, I've been having a bit of a block. So beware there may not be quick updates if I continue it. Well...enjoy anyway?  
> *does not own Supernatural...*

It started simple, just a silent cry in his mind for his 'feathery-half-assed-guidance', which he, unfortunately, could not respond to. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring himself to answer the prayers. It wasn't like he didn't want to help him, he cared for Dean, more than he thought was appropriate. If he had words for the feelings that consumed him at the thought of his human charge, it would be something along the lines of guilt and sorrow. 

Then the prayers turned angry, which only fanned the guilt that gnawed at the angel's insides. Then they stopped altogether, which scared the angel even more. What was he so afraid of? Facing Dean? Admitting his guilt? Or was it the awkward feelings he harbored for the man? 

It had been weeks since Cas had told Dean that he could not bring Sam back, he was gone for good. He tried not to think about the look of pure grief that washed over the man's face when he broke the news to him. He still remembered the thoughts he could read so clearly – hear – so clearly in Dean's head: What good was having an Angel as a friend if they couldn't help you when you really needed it? 

Weeks passed since Dean's last prayer, and Castiel was starting to doubt his silence and absence from the man's life. It's probably what he wanted anyway, right? For the angel to disappear? When he finally decided to check on Dean (invisible of course, he still couldn't settle the pit in his stomach enough to truly face the man) he realized how wrong he   
was to stay away.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
White knuckles stood out against taut flesh, as calloused hands gripped the edge of the sink with every fiber of strength they could muster. The sound of the television could be heard from the other side of the door, and the guilt of knowing what he was doing tainted the relief he was attempting to seek. Another flash of fire, a memory he tried his hardest to forget caused his gag reflex to kick in, rendering him temporarily nauseated. With a huff, he spit the bile into the pink water underneath the running tap. Green eyes slid closed for a moment, taking in the respite the pain gave him. It was tangible, it was something to grip onto when his reality tail-spinned into sinister thoughts and dredged up memories. Dean opened his eyes slowly, not realizing how tight he had his lids closed until the world was temporarily in different shades of gray. The only thing that stood out in vibrancy was the blood. Dark, thick and so mesmerizing, it trailed from the wounds on his left arm, down the side of the basin in thick, red droplets, to get swallowed by a mini-wave of water, tainting the clear liquid in various shades of red and pink. 

He wanted to scream, to paint the walls red, to let the whole world know how broken he was on the inside. He wanted to scream about how much he had sacrificed for a world that he didn't think was worth living in anymore. He tipped his head upwards to stare at the water stains on the drop-ceiling of the bathroom. He stayed like this for a few moments, trying to calm the raging storm of emotions that dripped from his soul and swallowed his insides with a viscous burning sensation he couldn't shake. With a slow tilt downwards, he caught the spark of his reflection in the dirty mirror in front of him. He no longer recognized himself; the bags under his eyes seemed to drag all the way to his feet, his cheeks sunken in slightly, which only seemed to accentuate the darkness in his eyes. His eyes. The pale splash of green among all the red his life had turned into. Sorrow bubbled from his chest, twisting into anger. He was so angry, at everything. If anybody deserved death, it was him not his little brother. Without thinking he slammed his right fist into the mirror with all of his might, mesmerized by the shards that cut through the skin across his knuckles. Red. Just like everything else he saw. For the first time in a while, he bowed his head to call out one last ditched effort to save himself from giving into the single bullet that was in the bedside drawer in the other room, 

“Cas...I....” then he realized what he was doing, and swallowed the rest of his prayer. Suddenly too tired to care about the mess in the bathroom, he opened the door, fully intent on drinking his sorrows away before calling it a night. That was, until he ran right into somebody. Somebody who had their hand raised in a knocking motion against the bathroom door. Somebody he swore he would never see again, Castiel.

He didn't know what to say, think, feel. He wanted to smack the angel silly, hit him until he could actually leave a mark on him. But he didn't do any of the above, opting to shift past him to his bag across the room.

“Dean - “ Cas began, his voice failing him as he took in his friend's appearance. Said man bristled at the sound of his voice, pausing in his search for the old medical kit he always kept on him. 

“What.” it didn't surprise Cas to hear the roughness of Dean's voice, laced with anger. He had been expecting it. In fact, he would have been surprised if he had seemed happy to see him. With a sigh, the angel took a step towards the bed Dean was now sitting on, his back facing him.

“I'm so -”

“If you're going to apologize, you might as well leave, 'cos I ain't buyin' it.” Dean ground out between clenched teeth as he collected the med-kit into his hands, careful to not let any of the still drying blood on the dusty old carpet or bed beneath him. Cas watched helplessly as Dean began tearing open new packages of gauze.

“May I?” Cas finally asked, now standing beside Dean, his hand lightly touching one of the deeper marks on Dean's right arm. Without thinking, Dean shrunk away from the angel's touch, shutting the being out completely.

“Dean. Please?” he whispered the last part, knowing he sounded pathetic to the man before him. 

“Why are you here?” Dean asked gruffly, ignoring the crestfallen look on Castiel's face, focusing on wiping his wounds with an alcohol wipe instead. 

“You...said my name.” Cas responded lamely, suddenly hyper-aware of the tension between the two of them. The wounds now clean, he wound gauze around the non-superficial ones, still trying to avoid Castiel.

“What made you listen this time?” Dean snapped, finished fixing his wounds up, he stood up so fast he felt a bit fuzzy at the edge of his vision, but ignored it as he turned around to face the other man in he room.

“Huh? I called to you every day for weeks. You didn't answer! Not even after Sammy...” He trailed off, refusing to finish the sentence, focusing his glare on the angel. 

“I heard you. I didn't know how to face you.” Cas whispered, his gaze slipping downwards. It was laughable, really. An Angel of the Lord afraid to make eye contact with a human. But it was more than that, Dean meant more than that to him, even if he didn't show it, or didn't know how to express it properly. 

“Well, ain't that a bitch.” Dean swore, his face contorting into something akin to disbelief. 

“I couldn't do anything for you, Dean.” Cas said evenly, trying to keep calm with the frustration the brewed beneath the surface of his consciousness. 

“I couldn't – I can't bring him back. I can't lie to you, and tell you that he's better off, or that you'll be okay, because we both know better. I...I was of no use to you. I am of no use to you.” Cas bit out, trying to keep the heat behind his eyes from showing. 

“I...wasn't asking for a miracle, Cas. I was asking for a friend.” Dean's voice softened until Cas had to strain to hear his words. 

“How can I...make amends?” Cas asked quietly, hoping that Dean had an answer for him. Something, anything to help him understand how to stop Dean from going down this self-destructive road. 

“I don't know.” The response was almost chilly, leaving Cas feeling slightly hollow.

“I don't like seeing you like this, please let me heal them.” Cas asked again, hoping to get some sort of positive response. Instead Dean just blankly stared at him. 

“No...if you want to supposedly fix things, you can start by giving me some time to myself.” Cas ignored the stab of pain in his heart as he nodded,

“If you call, I will come.” he didn't feel like pleading his case anymore, anyway. Dean didn't respond, he just simply slipped underneath the covers of his bed, his back to the angel, eyes fixated on an uninteresting speck of dirt on the wall across from him.   
He ignored the fluttering of wings signaling the departure of the angel. 

“There's nothing to fix, anyway.” He whispered brokenly into his pillow.

But Castiel would stand by him, fixing what he could. That much the angel knew as he sat on a bench in one of his favorite parks, hearing the barely audible whisper.


End file.
